


to turn (will be our delight)

by lordy_lou



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Pike-centric, Post-Episode: The Bard's Lament, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordy_lou/pseuds/lordy_lou
Summary: Pike leans back, tilting her way to the ground, and the stars seem to rotate on a crooked axis. The upturned bowl of the sky reminds her of being a child, of running wild out to the Dividing Plains and spinning until the world spun with her.---(In another world, Pike follows Scanlan out of Whitestone.)
Relationships: Scanlan Shorthalt/Pike Trickfoot
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69





	to turn (will be our delight)

There’s a low fire crackling in the center of a small village in the Turst Fields, and Scanlan and Kaylie are trading lines of a gently rolling fiddle piece to an enraptured audience of tall folk. The stars are bright overhead, and the day’s meager heat has dissipated into a chill that almost threatens to bite at Pike’s nose.

She’d seen better stars on the deck of The Broken Howl, but the music… well, there was no comparison, really. Even though Scanlan and Kaylie’s backs were to her, she could feel the comfort of the tune, the unspoken “put your feet up, relax” lilt of the melody. The villagers are smiling at the gnomes—even her, not part of the performance, but she’d spent the day doing healing work and helping with a bumper crop of winter wheat. The meat and potatoes of a cleric’s work for their god, the thrill of Flame Strike notwithstanding.

Pike leans back, tilting her way to the ground, and the stars seem to rotate on a crooked axis. The upturned bowl of the sky reminds her of being a child, of running wild out to the Dividing Plains and spinning until the world spun with her.

She casts Sending. She had written it out, counting everything just in case.

“Hi Grog!” she whispers. “We’re safe. Spent today healing and fixing stuff. Other two are playing music. I’m looking at the sky right now! I miss you.”

A beat, and then:

“Hi buddy! I miss you too. The sky looks good. What is the brightest one called? It’s thataways, by the tallest tree. I’m going to—“ and the message cuts off. Pike closes her eyes, and her heart aches for her oldest and best friend. She has been separate from him—from _all_ of them—before, but it feels different this time. 

Only one fiddle is playing now, and Pike opens her eyes. Scanlan is standing over her while Kaylie entertains the crowd by the fire. He looks significantly better than he did in the previous weeks, but his face is still a little too skinny for her tastes, his eyes a little too sunken in. He doesn’t have a smile, and that may be the biggest change of all.

That part, Pike thinks, is not so bad. Better to be honest about one’s pain than to cover it up all the time. (She very ferociously does not think about herself. She came along to help Scanlan.)

He reaches a hand down for her, and she accepts it. He pulls her up, and she stands, and the sky spins ever more.

—

_“You’re not going alone,” she says. It is the first thing she has said in this entire time, from the entrance to the pudding to the screaming and the heartbreak._

_“I’m going with Kaylie,” he sneers. “I know I’m not.”_

_“No, Scanlan,” and she lets the steel creep into her voice, the steel that so few of the group really acknowledge beyond the hoots and hollers about ‘mama pike!’. She lets the steel creep in and she knows that he can hear it. “I’m coming with you.”_

_“I can take care of myself.” It is a weak justification, and they both know it. There is something breaking in Scanlan, something worse than what’s already been broken, and she has preached to men with nothing before and knows what happens to those men without a good minder. And bless her, but Kaylie’s in no fit state to be minding anyone at the moment._

_Pike looks at Grog, and he nods, slowly._

_“I know you can take of yourself, Scanlan,” she says, already moving out of the door to grab her pack. “But you shouldn’t have to, so I’m coming with you.”_

_Scanlan starts to argue, and gods help her, she cannot help but to whip around to glare at him. He steps back slowly, despair and anger and fear writ large on his face._

_When did he become so transparent? Or had he given up his facade entirely?_

_Pike takes a breath, counts it out. “We’ll talk about it on the road.” Then she leaves the room fully, and Kaylie is standing in the corridor with tears streaming down her face. Close enough to hear everything, then, and the younger girl looks at her with the same fear, just like her father._

_“He loves you more than anyone else in the world,” Pike says. She doesn’t know if she says this as a comfort or as a warning, but Kaylie only nods._

_“Rightly so,” she warbles out. “I’m fantastic.” She wipes her face across her sleeve. “Of all the ones to come along, at least it’s someone our size.”_

_“Thank you, I think.”_

_“Don’t.”_

_—_

They’ve made their way to the outskirts of Westruun by the time Scanlan’s overall mood lifts. It’s not a continual thing, by any means, but he’s begun to slip his sly jokes in once again. 

(It’d been a point of contention, at first: both Kaylie and her had begun chastising him when, very early in their travels, he’d tried to paste on a smile and play the clown. Pike had calmly told him that there was no need to behave like that, and that no one expected him to be their entertainment unless he really wanted to.

Kaylie, on the other hand, had simply shouted at him to stop fucking around and lying about being happy. Pike is pretty sure that Kaylie’s words were more effective.)

As it is, it’s enough of a change that Pike feels ready enough to separate herself from the two for an afternoon, and she rushes through the town in order to find Wilhand. 

So much of the town is rubble, now. Her stomach churns. There—the corner where she’d bit Grog’s finger to the knuckle. The intersection where they’d tied a low cord across the street and watched people trip. The alleyway where she’d felt scared for the first time in a long time, and the glowing light of Sarenrae that had spilled out of her in comfort. The park where she’d sworn, as a child, she’d make the new temple of Sarenrae, and the bar next door would be Grog’s tavern/cobbler shop/fighting ring.

All of it is gone, in rubble and dried bloodstains, in splintered wood and fresh potter’s fields.

_Hope_ , she reminds herself, her gorge rising. 

The repairs are ongoing, and more than a few familiar—if newly scarred—faces brighten when they see her clanking her way to Wilhand’s house. It’s been fixed up a bit—not entirely, but definitely better than the last time she’d seen the place. The bricks are a bright red, not the faded rust she’d grown up with.

She beats on the door, then remembers her key, and unlocks the door to a beaming, wispy-haired gnome, and her heart stutters. He seems so old now.

“My Pike!” he cries, hugging her and utterly failing to lift her in order to swing him around, like he did when she was a child. “Oh, my darling Pike! I’m so glad to see you well! Did you bring Grog?”

It is the mention of Grog that breaks her, really. She weeps into Wilhand’s embrace, and he stutters and shushes her and smooths her hair, like he did when she was a child.

Over tea, she explains what’s been going on. 

“My Pike,” he says, pouring himself another (third? Fourth?) cup of tea, “You don’t have to fix everyone in the world, you know.” He dumps a generous spoonful of sugar into the tea, takes a sip, and adds two more spoonfuls.

“It’s not everyone in the world, Poppop, it’s just—“

“It’s just the entirety of Vox Machina, and they are a massive part of _your world,_ my Pike.”

She’s not quite sure how to explain it—she keeps the group running, because without them… the world might end. Sure, her world would definitely end (and she doesn’t want to think on that too much, _nope_ ) but also they’ve proven themselves instrumental to the safety of the continent. Sarenrae does not transport a soul lightly, Pike knows this, and knows that Vox Machina must have some part yet to play, but…

_I fix the fixers_ , she thinks, and for some reason it rings morbid in her mind. She feels something in her face fall, and Wilhand smiles ruefully across from her.

“I’m… I have to help them, Poppop, I just… I don’t…” and the afternoon sun is glowing in the rebuilt parlor. “I have missed so many things, and I could have prevented so much. Maybe I could have stopped the group from getting to this point in the first place if I’d been there more often to begin with, but then I wouldn’t be able to be with the church so much, and—“

“Pike,” Wilhand interrupts. “Everyone else in that group is an adult. Why can’t they fix themselves?” 

_Because I love them so much. Because they don’t know how. Because it’s my duty to help the ones I love,_ she thinks, and the thought sticks with her, of love and the duty to oneself and the duty to others and the duty to one’s god.

(What does it mean to be a cleric, anyways?)

Pike sits quietly, thinking, and her tea grows cold. 

As the sun sets, there’s a soft knock at the door. A runner, sent to fetch Pike and Wilhand, inviting them to a performance at one of the city’s few working taverns. It’s the first tavern job that Scanlan has taken since leaving Whitestone, and despite everything Pike finds herself excited for the show. She helps Wilhand bundle up warmly against the cold, and the two set off. 

Scanlan and Kaylie are already playing when they arrive, and there’s joy to be found within the crowd, scarred and mutilated faces crinkling with delight at the spectacle of two fantastic musicians at work. Pike makes sure to spread her coin freely, buying rounds for the bar a few times, but doesn’t drink much herself.

At the side of the room, a couple dances together to one of the songs, gracelessly and cheerfully stomping out the rhythm. She is missing an eye and the other woman’s lost a hand, and they steal kisses each time they swing past each other. Other couples begin to push tables back, and Scanlan, gazing into the crowd, catches Pike’s eye over the dancers. 

He smiles. It is soft and small, but it is there.

Pike casts Sending. She’s gotten a feel for the pace, now, 

“Hi Grog!” she says. “I’m in Westruun. Wilhand and I are watching Scanlan and Kaylie perform for the first time in a long while. I miss you.”

A beat, then: “Hi Buddy! I miss you too. Good that they’re playin’, finally. Tell Wilhand I love ‘im. Does Scanlan smile yet? Are you happy? I’m going to—“

Wilhand taps his feet, and leads her into the mass of people for a tottering old dance of their own, playing at swinging her around in a traditional Gnomish reel. Pike clicks her heels while Wilhand claps her on, and she spins and spins and spins.

—

_The first day—well, afternoon, really—of walking is frighteningly quiet, and they have to stop earlier than expected. Scanlan is still dealing with the effects of his death, as much as Pike doesn’t want to think about it, Kaylie’s still hungover, and Pike is still mulling on what had been said earlier that day._

_Weird fucking magic, she thinks. Juniper (dead), Vickel (gone), weird fucking magic. It’s one thing to know the heart of someone, but the particulars are just as important, she thinks._

_She almost hadn’t spoken up at all, had thought ‘this is what’s best, isn’t it?’ but her anger grabbed her by the throat and by the hand and threw her towards the first solution she could think of. She can still feel the echoes of that anger. Weird fucking magic._

_The pines around them are tall and a dusty blue-green. The wagon-wheel ruts in the road aren’t as deep as they should be for this time of year, but Pike supposes that this is what happens when multiple dragons have taken over the continent—shipping may get cut off here and there._

_Ahead of her, Scanlan sniffs and begins to flip off the trees. Pike can feel the hairs on the back of her neck raise, and it’s almost as if she’s being… watched? Are they being scryed on? Another thing to add to the pile, and Scanlan stumbles across a rut and barely catches himself against a tree. He’s barefoot. What?_

_Instinctively, Pike goes to help him, but Scanlan waves her off. Kaylie is a little further down the road, but she’s turned around and watches the two of them warily._

_“I’m fine,” he says, wincing at the loud crackles his ankle gives off as he tries to roll it. “I’m fine.”_

_(O Sarenrae, grant me grace.)_

_“Bullshit,” she says, despite herself. His eyes widen in—shock? Anger? Relief? Gods, he’s hard to read sometimes. “Don’t tell me that, Scanlan. Not today.”_

_He attempts to take a step back, but can only hop awkwardly. “You’re right, you’re right,” he says, pasting a smile on that instead turns bitter and self-deprecating. “I should have known better.”_

_“Yes, you should’ve.” She forces herself to extend a hand, to bend to her knees. “Please let me heal you.” She stresses the ‘please’ snidely, even though she tries really hard not to. Weird fucking magic._

_Slowly, awkwardly, Scanlan lifts his foot to her lap and with a quick prayer, his ankle cracks back into place._

_“Why’d you leave without your boots, anyways?” It’s a poor attempt at making peace, but it’s the best she’s got right now._

_He doesn’t look at her. “They were full of pudding.”_

_Ah._

—

Kymal is a different kind of beast to Westruun entirely. While it hadn’t really been hit in the same manner, much of the outflow (people, goods, gold) had funneled its way into the seedy town, and there are still some refugee tents pitched outside the walls. The crooked chair of the Ironseat Ridge rises dark behind the city, its mines long dried up. There’s a stench—not like the old one, from Westruun, but like… money, and the trials it brings and withholds. Glitz and grime. Pike hasn’t spent too much time here, other than with Vox Machina; it’d never really been one of her favorite places.

For Kaylie, however, Kymal means home. She’s fairly bouncing with excitement by the time they can see the Ridge rising over the Dividing Plains, and quickly makes her leave once they’ve entered the city proper. She doesn’t look at Scanlan as she walks away.

For the first time in weeks, it is just Pike and Scanlan. She looks at him, and he looks at her. 

“Drink?” he asks.

“Drink,” she replies. 

They find their way to a dingy tavern—one Scanlan claims he’s familiar with, though she doesn’t ask how—and settle in for a comfortable afternoon of ale and quiet. Pike watches Scanlan eye the stage with half-hearted interest, until he finally turns back to face her. 

“Just ask,” he drawls. “I know you want to.” He’s got a tic in his jaw, like he’s nervous.

“You’re pretty presumptuous, thinking you know what I want,” she responds, and gods she means it to be playful but it doesn’t come out like that. He flinches back, but tries to hide it. In truth, she wasn’t sure what he was referring to. 

“True, true,” he says. “My apologies.” Scanlan turns his immediate attention to his drink, and something angry within Pike flares. Is it anger? At whom?

“I was just trying to joke.” She lays a gauntleted hand on his forearm before he starts drinking in earnest. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no—I’m a bit too sensitive,” is all he says, but there’s an unanticipated thoughtful twist to the last few words, as if he’s realizing something. Good.

Pike squeezes his forearm, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. She lets him get halfway through his next gulp before asking: “Why didn’t you go with Kaylie to visit her mother?”

Scanlan chokes on the ale, just a little. He quickly puts the tankard down, checking to see if anyone had noticed. Odd, Pike thinks, that a man so able and willing to expose his bowel movements for all and sundry can’t handle spilling a drink in public. She snags him a cloth from the counter.

“We don’t have to talk about it, not if you don’t want to.”

“No, no—it’s fine. I just don’t know if Kaylie is okay with you knowing.”

“Ah,” she says. It makes sense. She switches tracks. “Your letter, Scanlan—“

“The one you _totally betrayed me_ by reading?”

“Yup, that one. You wanted me to be a parent to Kaylie.”

“I did.”

“Is that still something you want? If you die?”

“I mean… technically, I already have.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, then.”

Pike groans. “I do want the answer,” she says, but there’s a tenseness to his shoulders that shakes her nerves. She takes a deep breath, holds, releases. “If you’re comfortable giving me an answer, that is. Because she’s a good kid but I don’t know if she would want me in her life. I don’t know if it’s a fair burden, Scanlan.”

Fair to gift Kaylie the baggage of…whatever Pike and Scanlan are. _Friends_ , she tells herself convincingly. _Friends who make vows pre-mortem, who threaten the gods to return a soul_ , she tells herself less convincingly. _Friends who write letters that pour out an equal measure of despair and love, who don’t want to raise a child alone_ , she tells herself, not convincingly at all.

_Friends Plus_ , she tells herself. Have your dead dad’s Friend Plus look after you like a parent. It’s an odd proposal.

He mirrors her breath—in, hold, release. “I can’t tell you what she feels,” he begins. “But I can tell you that she’s threatened to cut my balls off if I treat you like I treated her mother.” He sighs. “I don’t know whether that reflects more on me or her or you and I and our… our…” 

He’s floundering too. “Friends Plus,” she supplies helpfully, but can’t get through the second word without tasting its wrongness.

Scanlan winces. “That’s probably the worst label I’ve ever heard, for many reasons.”

“Yeah, that one kind of sucked.” But beyond that, Pike is a little grateful—this is the most open that either of them have been about… this whole situation…. since their discussion before the Feywild. “I’m having trouble coming up with something that actually fits.”

“Hey, I’m just glad I made it to ‘friends’ level,” Scanlan says, but the normal self-deprecation isn’t there—just a wry smile. It’s nice, and Pike feels a warmth blossom in her chest.

“Who knows where you might end up?” she says, and winks at him, exaggerated and outlandish. It surprises him into a bolt of wild laughter, and he raises his tankard to her.

“To the journey, then,” he says. “The journey _out_ of Friends Plus, wherever it may lead.” She clangs her tankard against his, and they begin to drink in earnest, until the dingy tavern grows fuzzy enough to seem the right size, until Kaylie appears and forces the two into a room for the night, until Scanlan passes out on the floor and Pike spins her way into the bed, her fingers tracing a spell.

Pike casts Sending. 

“Hi Grog!” she says. “Scanlan ’n’ Kaylie ’n’ me are in Kymal. Kaylie visited her mom and me and Scanlan drank. We are Friends Plus. I miss—“

A beat, then a sudden screaming in her ear: “HI PIKE BUSY KILLIN’ A MANTICORE WHAT’S FRIENDS PLUS YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND JUST FUCKING DIE ALREADY NOT YOU PIKE I WOULD NEVER OW SHIT—“

Pike laughs. “Get ‘im, Grog!” she crows, and Scanlan groans from the floor as she cackles.

—

_Pike feels the familiar pull one morning, not even a week after they’ve left Whitestone. It’s all become a bit commonplace for her, really: the pull starts at the base of her spine, and works its way up until there’s a gentle squeeze on her shoulders. She knows it, although it had frightened her the first time it’d happened. It still frightens her all the same, given what it tends to imply._

_They need you, Sarenrae murmurs in her ears, in her mind. As always, she answers the call._

_“Scanlan, Kaylie—“ she says. They’re both sitting at the breakfast table in the mansion, idly picking at… chicken omelettes? She’s not sure, she hadn’t even placed her fork in her mouth before the pull began. “I need you to listen to me carefully.” They both perk up, and Scanlan tilts his head, consideringly._

_But it’s too late for a warning._

_In a breath, Pike’s soul is taken from her mortal shell and placed in a village she’s never been to, with Vax’s corpse entombed in feathers at her feet and most of Vox Machina staring her down in horrifying seriousness. Vex and Keyleth are both tear-stained and Percy is putting on his stiff-upper lip, but it’s got an air of desperation. Grog is shouldered awkwardly into a corner and there’s a tall blonde human in the arms of… some sort of metal man? They’re all waterlogged, save for the metal man , and there’s a commotion outside._

_Grog, at least, musters up a little smile for her, and waggles his fingers. She looks down at herself, and sees the increasingly-familiar glowing, half-corporeal form._

_“Hi, Pike,” Vex says, choked and horrible. “We need you.”_

_Pike takes a deep breath—unnecessary, in this body, but steeling nonetheless—and begins to work._

—

Pike had thought that Westruun was bad, but it was at least on a solid road to recovery.

Emon, however, seemed to be a different story. While the city itself seemed largely repaired from Thordak’s dominion, there’s an air of a city on tenterhooks. Of waiting for something to happen, for good or for ill. The Clasp had been instrumental in the rebuilding of Emon, as had the Alabaster Lyceum, but the Council really hadn’t found a way to pay them back, even with all of the spoils from Thordak’s horde.

The streets, Pike thinks, feel wrong. The peace feels fragile. The feel of the city has changed from proud beacon of civilization to a patchwork of attempts.

They make their way to Grey Skull Keep, avoiding as many people as possible. It doesn’t quite work. Scanlan and Pike are fairly recognizable, and they receive their fair share of well-wishers and grateful folks, and they get bogged down enough in people that by the time they make it to the keep, Gilmore’s let himself in.

He’s lounging on a scavenged settee in the middle of the main hall, except he’s less “lounging” and more “posing, but in wait.” As soon as he sees them—Kaylie included, and she just rolls her eyes—he leaps from the chair, his arms spread wide in joy.

“Hello, my wonderful small friends!” he says, beaming. “Glad to see that you’re all alive and well. I heard you were in town and thought I’d take the opportunity to say hello to you myself! Show you a friendly face,” and Pike’s not entirely sure how, but his smile gets even bigger.

Scanlan, on the other hand, looks wary.

“Were you put up to this?” he asks, and it’s only then that Pike remembers: Gilmore had been in Whitestone Castle when Vox Machina had split.

_When it’d split_. She hasn’t thought of it that way before, and that horrifies her.

Gilmore, for all the pointedness of the question, doesn’t blink. “Not at all,” he replied. “You two—not you, sorry, Kaylie, you’re still comparatively anonymous—“

“For now,” Kaylie scoffs.

“Of course, just for now—anyways, _you two_ caused a bit of a stir coming through town, heroes of the realm and all! You even went through Abdar’s Promenade and didn’t stop by to say hello, so I figured I’d nip that kind of thinking in the bud and take you all out for some dinner this evening, my treat.”

As with many things Gilmore, it’s a little overwhelming. But Scanlan seems assuaged by the comments, and his shoulders relax.

“That sounds great,” Pike says, and she means it. And, honestly, it is a lovely time: Gilmore is an expert in keeping the mood lighthearted, and he and Kaylie trade gentle barbs back and forth throughout dinner. 

Pike is a bit confused by the familiarity, so she asks, and Gilmore says simply that he’d had the “distinct pleasure” of getting to know Kaylie a bit while Scanlan was “convalescing.” This is the only reference to the time in Whitestone that evening, and even so Gilmore quickly glosses over it by drawing Scanlan into a long discussion about magical methods, one that leaves Pike energized (if a little dizzy). Two bards, a cleric, and a sorcerer, trading notes on the feeling of casting spells.

At one point, Scanlan mentions how Keyleth had once said her magic felt like the wind pulling at her, or like the earth rooting her down, and how different it’d seemed to his normal method of convincing the world. Gilmore leaps on the conversation and they veer into a discussion of “wild magic” and actual, wild magic, and Pike takes a breath as Scanlan moves on from the mention of another member of Vox Machina without even a twitch.

Good. Good, good, good. 

As Scanlan and Gilmore run rampant over what they believe magic should be (young wizards would probably be upset at their comparatively rough-shod approach, Pike thinks), Kaylie pauses and looks off into space.

“Gotcha,” she says to the air, after a bit. “Marquet, then? Never been there before. Looking forward to it.” She shakes her head, and looks at Pike. “The Doctor’s finally learned Sending, gods help us all. Says he’s got a gig or five in Ank’Harel, and we’re welcome to join. Asked after you especially, Pike.”

Ah. Marquet. 

A little part of her heart stutters—she’d give a lot to visit Grog in Vasselheim, honestly—but she smiles anyways. Kaylie narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything Gilmore has entered their conversation.

“Oh, it’s been ages since I’ve visited! Are you planning to go there, then? If you need a teleport, I may just tag along to say hello to some folks, really.”

“You’re so fuckin’ rude, Gilmore, just invitin’ yourself along where nobody wants you—“ 

“I’ll have you know I’m a _deeply_ wanted man across all of Exandria, my dear—“

“You’re so fulla shit your eyes are brown, Gil—“

The two devolve into the barbs again, but Pike can tell that over the playfighting, both Kaylie and Gilmore are watching her carefully. 

Damn, sometimes it’s annoying to know perceptive people. Scanlan, on the other hand, is not generally one of those people except for in rare flashes of insight. So she looks at him instead, sticks her smile to her face, and says, “Ank’Harel! I haven’t been!”

“It’s… not exactly my city,” Scanlan demurs. “Lost a lot of money there, once.”

“How?”

“I tried to buy drugs but ended up buying a sack full of seasoning,” he says, eyes haunted. She’s fairly certain he’s being honest, so she does her best not to laugh.

“Oh. Like a kid with some oregano.” It turns out she cannot stop a small giggle from escaping, and Scanlan sighs heavily, as if the weight of the world is on his small shoulders. “How much did you lose?”

“…about five hundred gold.”

Pike winces. Scanlan doesn’t often come off as money-fixated—though, to be honest, it’s hard for _anyone_ to come off as money-fixated when they’re in Vex’s company—but he’s dropped enough hints about growing up poor that she understands the hurt. 

“Then perhaps you should go try to win it back, my small friend,” Gilmore says, clapping him on the back. Kaylie is pouting, so she has presumably lost the battle of wits. “Take the city by storm.” 

A feral gleam enters Scanlan’s eyes. 

Pike’s heart sinks.

That evening, the group walks back to Grey Skull Keep, Gilmore tottering off to his shop with a promise to visit tomorrow afternoon, when they’ve all slept off the fatigue of travel.

Kaylie, however, locks eyes with Pike. She’s never quite understood how someone so young could have such a serious and fierce and _knowing_ glare. Maybe Vex might have had a glare like that when she was younger, but even that feels like guesswork. Kaylie is singularly Kaylie, and Pike sometimes wishes she could always carry that same kind of self-assuredness.

Kaylie locks eyes with Pike, shakes her head, and steps backwards a few feet. “Gonna go visit the Diamond Nest, Dad. Gonna relive some memories, of beatin’ you in a flute contest.” Scanlan opens his mouth to protest, but Kaylie cuts him off with a quick, “Get home safe, you two. Don’t stay out past your bedtime,” and jogs off down the road, towards the city proper.

Scanlan stares after her for a bit, his mouth hanging open a bit. 

“Every time she calls me Dad, it shocks me. I never… I never thought I’d really get to have that.” 

Pike laughs. “She loves you, Scanlan.” Then she bumps her shoulder against his. “C’mon, old man, let’s get you home. Your daughter gave you a curfew, I think.”

“Hey, I’m not _that_ old!”

“You’re the oldest in Vox Machina by far, you’re _totally_ that old!”

“Yeah, well… my age in gnome years translates to a healthy young man in human years!”

“So what does that make _me_ , you pervert?”

As is often the case with her, she means it jokingly, but instead there is a dawning horror on his face. “Oh. Oh gods no.”

“I’m just kidding, Scanlan. I’m going to be… forty-two? Forty-three, my bad. Forty-three this year.”

He lets out a loud breath in relief. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Did you seriously forget? Also, you gotta stop measuring yourself by human standards. I think Percy’s only like… twenty? Twenty-four, maybe. A little bit after that? And he’s probably ready to settle down with Vex, and Keyleth’s pretty young too.”

The look on his face is one of abject horror. “They’re _kids._ ”

“Well, it’s not really like you or I are much better half of the time, honestly.”

Scanlan inhales as if to argue, then thinks better of it and closes his mouth with a loud _clack_ of teeth.

“I think, though, in our group, that we all have our moments of maturity, right? It’s not like it’s a constant thing. I’m not even sure if maturity is a real thing. Maybe it’s just becoming wiser and able to make better choices, but even then it’s… it varies, right?”

The stars are faint in the sky, the light of the torches along the city streets dimming them. Like little pinpricks through a slate-grey cloth.

“I think that it’s good to make jokes and be immature as long as we can make wise decisions when it counts. I don’t want to live in a world where being mature means I can’t laugh, but I also don’t want to live in a world where laughter is the only thing, without any weight. Then it becomes meaningless.”

It takes a bit for Pike to realize that Scanlan has slowed down, and is now a few paces behind her. She is grateful for her darkvision, because the look on his face is a little too desperate for her to look at in full light

“What if you don’t know _what_ to do, Pike,” he says slowly, carefully, “when it’s time for those wise decisions?” 

Pike puts her hands on her hips. “You surround yourself with people who can help you make a wiser decision.” 

Scanlan sighs at the inference. It’s not like she tried to hide it, really. “I know,” he says slowly, “that you stuck around because you wanted to fix me.”

_Well,_ Pike thinks. _Partly_. “In the beginning,” she agrees.

“But it’s been seven months, Pike. Aren’t you tired of this by now?”

“Not really,” she says. He still holds himself stiffly, and she walks towards him. “You should know why I stayed by now. Right?”

She stops a few paces from him. She’s walked this far; let him close the gap.

Scanlan closes his eyes and drags a deep breath in through his nostrils, holds it, lets it out. He’s silent, though, so Pike asks once more:

“Why, Scanlan Shorthalt, would I walk across the entirety of a continent with another person?”

“To fix them,” he says, but there’s a wry twist to his shadowed mouth that keeps her from slapping him outright. “Because you do your duty to the ones you love.”

It hurts, hearing her own words come back to her, but Scanlan is nothing if not a wordsmith. “That’s part of it, sure. What’s the other part?”

He’s silent again. 

“What’s the other part, Scanlan?”

At this, he looks up at her. “If I say something like this, it becomes true.” She feels pinned in place by his stare, and she swallows.

“Then say it.” Her heart beats wildly within her chest, racing towards an inevitability that she’s still too afraid to say out loud herself. “Please,” she adds.

Scanlan’s eyes are dark and wide. “You’re traveling with me because you love _me._ ” He takes a step closer to her. “You love all of your friends, but I know for a fact that we’re Friends Plus, so you definitely love me.”

Pike smiles, and she watches him shiver. “Good logic.”

“Was it?” Scanlan takes another step closer. “How far does that love extend?” He’s definitely within her space now, and she’s glad she was able to change out of her armor before dinner. His eyes are bright and he’s tracking her every move, like he’s not entirely sure she’s real. 

She reaches out and smooths back one of his curls, and she can see his breath catch in his throat.

“So far? Across the whole damn continent. Maybe further, if we cross the Ozmit.” Pike tilts her head back up the Promenade, and she watches him watch the movement of her neck, her jaw, and some part of her soul grins. “Maybe we’ll go catch Gilmore tonight, tell him we want to travel right away. Wouldn’t mind Vasselheim instead, though, honestly. _Definitely_ shouldn’t go back to the Keep and visit the old rooms, though, not with the night as young as it is.”

“Yeah,” Scanlan murmurs, taking the last step. She could encircle him with her arms now, but instead she feels one of his hands reach for hers. “Hate to waste time like that, of course.”

Gently, he pulls their hands up in the scant space between their bodies, and brushes a kiss to her palm. “Pike Trickfoot,” he whispers, but there’s awe in his voice, and a deep tenderness as his other hand cups her cheek. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this.”

Pike laughs, turning her head to kiss his palm in return. “There’s no such thing as _deserving_ this.” His hands are soft, and there’s no mistaking the shudder that runs through him as her lips graze his skin. “It just grew, and that’s that.” 

Scanlan groans, and pulls her face towards his for a kiss—a real one, not a fakeout or a tease or a test to see if she’s a Feywild trick—and the next few minutes pass very pleasantly, indeed.

At one point, Scanlan comes up for air. His hair is tousled wildly, and Pike can already see the faint outline of a hickey on his neck. But before she can point out (well, mock) his superior bruising capabilities, he’s looking at her confusedly.

“Wait, _what_ was that about Vasselheim?”

—

_Pike returns to her corporeal form after Grog hugs her too tightly, and she opens her eyes only to close them again in order to dash away tears. There is a ragged gasp somewhere by her side. She is in a comfortable bed, and she’s been tightly tucked in with soft, soft sheets. There’s a gusty sigh of relief from somewhere next to her as soon as she moves._

_“Oh gods,” Scanlan says. His voice is terse and tight, quick-clipped vowels unlike his usual lackadaisical phrasing. Pike digs the heels of her palms into her eyes. “You just—gods, Pike, you just collapsed. What the hell happened?”_

_“Vax died,” she says, and she hears—rather than sees—his sudden stillness. “I fixed it. Don’t worry.”_

_There is a beat of silence, and then an audible swallow. But he doesn’t say anything, and the knot of anger that Pike’s been winding within herself suddenly snaps tight, thrumming and coarse in her chest._

_“You know what, Scanlan? Don’t worry about it. They found a new guy. Tary. Didn’t know much about anything, but seemed like some sort of fancy spellcaster. Anyways, Vax fucking died because Vox Machina decided that fighting a kraken was a great idea, especially without their bard or their healer, but that’s okay,” she says, her voice falsely light. “I fixed it.”_

_One breath, two breaths—Pike presses her palms into her eyes a little bit harder, as if she could press the tears back in, and then removes her hands from her face in clenched fists._

_He is staring at her, just as pale as the day they’d left Whitestone. One of his legs is vibrating with trapped energy._

_“Every time I’ve been called back recently is to fix one of you. To do my duty, to use my weird fucking magic—" and at this, Scanlan swallows, “—to bring you back from the dead. It’s what I do. And I love my friends, so I will do it every single time, because that’s how I take care of the people I love.”_

_Pike looks at Scanlan, small and unsure at her anger, and the worst part of her snarls: “I wish I just had to make a mansion, sometimes. I really, really do.”_

_At this, Scanlan abruptly stands and heads for the door. Pike throws herself out of the bed but is momentarily tangled in sheets, giving Scanlan enough time to slip out—and as he does, he twists his fingers in a dispel, and the mansion dissolves around them._

_They are in the nighttime woods, but she recognizes the area as the same one they’d stopped in before she’d been called to Vesrah. About a hundred yards away, Kaylie stumbles sleepily into a tree, ejected from the mansion._

_“Hey!” she shouts. “The fuck was that for, Shorthalt?” But she looks over and sees Pike kneeling on the ground, the sheets having disappeared, and something in her arch face creases in understanding._

_Further away, Scanlan is walking down the path towards Whitestone, his fists clenching and unclenching. “Sorry, Kaylie,” he calls. “Pike, let’s get you back to Whitestone.”_

_“Oh, no you do not,” Pike mutters, and grasps her holy symbol. Then Scanlan’s legs involuntarily stop, and she can hear him growl in frustration, even from twenty paces away. The spell wears off, and he’s able to move to see her, and he counterspells her next command, his face twisting._

_“What?! What could you possibly want from me? Sorry you’ve got it so much fucking worse than I do? Because I’m sorry! Is that it?” Before, in Whitestone, he hadn’t really been shouting at her—it had really only been at the tall folks, save for Grog. Now, she’s the sole recipient of his anger, and she feels her own rage temper and harden, her holy symbol warm beneath her hands._

_“I’m just saying that you’re not the only one who’s allowed to be angry, Scanlan,” she bites out. “But maybe actually bringing up the things that piss you off would help.”_

_“Everything I say is taken as a joke, Pike.” He hasn’t moved from his place in the path, but she can see tears welling up in his eyes. “And I know you might hate bringing us back to life, but fuck, at least you know you’re important. I’d kill to have that.”_

_Pike stomps a foot. “I wouldn’t be here, Scanlan, if you weren’t important!”_

_“You’re only here because you fix stuff,” he spits. “That’s what you do, right?” The tips of his fingers are twitching against his pockets._

_“I fix the people I love, Scanlan, and you’re one of them, so stop it! Listen to what I’m saying and stop talking about yourself like you’re not my fucking friend!”_

_He falls silent. There is a low scratch behind her, and she whips her head around to see Kaylie in the process of settling down on a fallen log a ways from them, determinedly facing the other direction. Pike breathes a prayer of thanks, and squeezes her holy symbol once again._

_“Thank you,” she says, and Scanlan exhales harshly through his nose—but he doesn’t talk. Pike walks one, two, ten paces towards him, the distance between them halved. “You’re right. I do want you to get better. But I came with you because I thought… I thought that we had an understanding, I guess.”_

_He snorts. “Like romantically? You were pretty clear about that.”_

_“If I recall correctly, that was you who cut things off. Also, stop talking.” His mouth snaps shut. “I thought that we understood how our skills supported the party, even if it sometimes went unsaid. I thought you understood that I understood—oh, man, I can’t explain it right. I thought we both understood what it meant to be the helper.”_

_There’s a block between her tongue and her brain, and she wishes she were better at speaking. Scanlan shakes his head._

_“But I don’t want that, Pike. I feel like a bit player in my own story.” His hands now hang limply at his sides. “And I don’t even know if it’s the group’s fault or my own fault that I’m like this. I just…” and here, he looks her directly in the eye. He doesn’t finish the sentence._

_Pike takes five steps more, the distance halved again. “Life’s not a story, Scanlan,” she says. With each step she takes, her holy symbol warms, and she feels her anger cool. “I’m sorry that this is what you’ve felt. I’m sorry that none of us thought to ask. But that has to stop now.”_

_“I’m really good at lying,” he says, echoing himself._

_“And I’m supposed to be really insightful, so where does that leave us, really?” She is close to him now, but he has curled in upon himself, arms wrapped tight around his torso. “You’re my friend and I love you. I know you love me too—“ a pained wheeze from Scanlan interrupts this phrase, “—and eventually, we can figure out the rest of the group. But… don’t lie anymore, Scanlan. Or at least not to me.”_

_He looks at her oddly. “What about you?” he asks. This close, she can see that he’s too skinny, and the bags under his eyes are too pronounced. Her stomach churns uncomfortably._

_“What about me?”_

_“Don’t lie to me any more, either.”_

_Pike almost wants to say I don’t know what you’re talking about, but sometimes he’s too clever for his own good. Not necessarily wise, but clever. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, short and sharp. “Deal,” she says, and something in her voice shakes. Then she spits on her hand and holds it out to him._

_In the starlight, she thinks, he looks sharp and beautiful. Scanlan spits on his palm and squishily shakes her hand._

_“Deal,” he says. His voice is warbling and unsure and his eyes are too bright, but his grip, at least, is strong._

_—_

Vasselheim, Pike thinks, is one of the loveliest cities in the world. She does acknowledge that she may be biased, given the location of Sarenrae’s greatest temple (so far), but for a woman of faith it is a simple joy to feel the divine imbued in every step within the city walls. 

Westruun is still where her heart lives, but Vasselheim—it is the cradle of civilization and the cradle of faith, and there is a bone-deep comfort in the permanency of the place, especially after travelling through the ruin and rebuilding of Tal’Dorei. Gilmore had sent her to just outside the city, as arcane means of travel were frowned upon in the city proper, but even the walk through the pine forest held within it a growing sense of anticipation. She counts her steps all the way to the temple—a familiar route— but she only gets halfway there before she hears the familiar sprint-stomp of an incoming Grog, and her name is howled across the Quad Roads, and Pike turns and braces herself.

Passersby watch with varying degrees of horror and amusement as they watch a small gnome in full plate armor judo-toss a gigantic tattooed goliath directly into a merchant’s stall.

“BUDDY!” Grog shouts, shrugging off broken boards and ripped canvas, quickly scooping Pike into a hug. He is crying unashamedly. “I MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”

“I missed you too, buddy!” Pike laughs. She can feel the beginnings of tears on her face… and she can see the merchant getting to his feet in anger. “We gotta get outta here!” 

“Oop! Let’s go!” Grog, with the ease of long practice, slings her onto his shoulders. As he begins to run, Pike throws a handful of platinum onto the street behind them. One of the coins beans the merchant in the temple, and Pike winces.

“Sorry!” she calls as the merchant curses them loudly. “That should cover it!” Then she digs her heels into Grog’s chest. “Let’s go! Braving Grounds!”

“Got us all ready, got us all entered and ready to compete—Zahrah did the writin’ bit—let’s go kick some ass! MON-STAH! MON-STAH! MON-STAH!” and Grog keeps the chant going throughout the entire sprint to the Braving Grounds and the Crucible itself, and Pike’s face hurts from grinning. She wraps her arms tightly around Grog’s bald head, hugging him again. “Gonna squeeze my head right off, Pike, and then we’ll really put on a fuckin’ show,” Grog says, but he puts her down on the ground.

Then his face crumples, like it often does when he tries to be casual. “So,” he begins, awkwardly. “How’s Scanlan?” His eyes are searching all around, as if his friend will pop out of nowhere, will melt out of invisibility.

Pike smiles. “He’s doing a lot better now.” She feels a little stiff still.

“Oh! Good. Good! Good.” A pause. “Did he… not want to come?”

A part of Pike’s heart breaks. “He did,” she says, “but he wanted to see Kaylie on her way. She’s going to Marquet.”

“Ah,” Grog says. “So… he’s not comin’?”

Pike reaches up and pats Grog’s large hand. “He will.” _I think he will. I’m pretty sure he will_. “Anyways, this gives us time to catch up, right?”

Grog sniffs, wipes his nose, and then nods. “Right. Yeah, yeah it does. Let’s go kick some ass, monstah.”

They both go to their separate entrances, and by the gods it feels good to fight again—first, she’s placed against fairly unskilled opponents but quickly cracks skulls on her way up the chain. By the time she and Grog see each other in the afternoon—both as finalists for the championship bout, they’re both fairly dinged up. One of Grog’s eyes has been half-gouged out, and Pike instinctively casts a healing spell. It’s immediately fixed, but the referee looks at her sternly.

“Miss,” they say, tall and officious, enough that Pike really has to crane her neck to see their aquiline face, “you may want to heal yourself, if you want this to be a fair fight.” 

There is a flash of purple in the crowd behind the referee, and Pike grins, feeling sharp and sure. “I’m sure it’ll be fine!” she says, and waves them off. They don’t move. “No, seriously, it’ll be fine.”

Grog grins right back at her, teeth bloody, and the referee sighs and signals for the match to begin. The stands grow silent at the frightening dichotomy between the two—they’d seen Grog’s ferocity throughout earlier fights, but they’d also seen Pike’s divine abilities. A cold wind blows through the arena, and Pike sees that flash of purple again, and a familiar voice crows into the silence:

“ _Take a look at this gnomish cleric--_

_And this other one--he’s so barbaric!_

_But I meant what I said,_

_That I’d take ‘em both to bed,_

_As long as the room was atmospheric!_ ”

While Pike was prepared for something like this (to an extent), Grog freezes in shock, and his grin shifts from ferocious to gleeful, and he looks at her and raises his eyebrows.

“Buddy?” he says. She nods firmly. 

“Let’s do it.” 

As one, Pike and Grog clasp arms in a warrior’s shake in the center of the arena, and the stands fill with the shouts of disappointed gamblers. The referee rolls their eyes at the pair, and shoos them out—“Fine, co-champions,” they say, and Pike and Grog fairly race out of the arena. As they do, Pike clambers onto Grog’s back once more, and Grog is looking about wildly for any sign of Scanlan.

Then, another flash of purple, and Pike watches as Scanlan walks quickly out of the stands towards them. Bless him for choosing such a bright color, Pike thinks. Grog rushes him, but before he completes his customary charge-hug greeting, he skids to a stop and stares down at Scanlan.

“Hey, big guy,” says Scanlan. “Been a while.”

“Hey,” Grog says. Then, instead of picking Scanlan up, Grog bends down until he’s kneeling in front of the other man—still significantly taller, but more on the level. Pike slips herself off of Grog’s back, giving him a gentle pat on the way down to stand by Scanlan. “You doin’ better? Pike said you were, but I should ask you too.”

Scanlan smiles at Grog. “I’m not perfect,” he says, “but yeah. I’m a lot better. Thank you for asking, Grog.”

“You’re welcome,” Grog says. Then he pauses, and his face twists again. “Scanlan?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like a hug?”

“I would love that, Grog.” Scanlan barely gets the last syllable out of his mouth before he is tightly wrapped up, and Grog is still kneeling on the ground. There’s a faint look of panic in Scanlan’s eyes as he’s squeezed, but Pike just smiles at him, and Scanlan wriggles his arms out from by his sides to hug Grog in return. 

Grog then swivels his head to look at Pike. Scanlan is still locked in his arms, and is turning faintly blue. “How about you? You doin’ alright?”

Pike reaches up to pat Grog’s massive bicep. “I am,” she says. “Now that I’ve got both of you here with me… yeah, I’m doing just fine.” There’s a wheeze from Scanlan. “You might want to loosen up there.”

“Oh! Shit.”

Eventually, they make their way to the Slayer’s Take, where they promise Vanessa they’ll take on a contract in the morning as long as they can sleep in the hall that night. Grog shoots both of them a suspicious glance when they simultaneously and loudly request a separate room, but Scanlan redirects Grog’s focus onto finding them food for the evening. Pike wanders off for a bath, ready to get rid of the dirt and the grime of the Crucible.

By the time she returns, Grog is still—presumably—raiding the kitchens, while Scanlan sits on the single bed in his room. She’ll share a room with Grog tonight, but for now she hops onto the bed and tucks herself into Scanlan’s side. His breathing is even and steady, but he’s silent.

_Truth_ , she reminds herself.

“I was worried you’d stay in Marquet with Kaylie after all,” she says into the silence. “But I also don’t think I could have blamed you if you had. Well, not entirely. Well, no, I would’ve been mad, but I would’ve understood.”

He sighs. “Honestly? I thought about it.”

Pike nods into his shoulder. “What made the decision?”

“I wanted to make a wise decision… and Kaylie told me to go.”

“Seriously?”

“She may have chewed me out, actually.”

Pike hmms, and waits. Sure enough, Scanlan continues: “I think that… even though acting on duty is an act of love for you, it still gets tiring sometimes.” He presses a kiss to her hair. “And if someone as blind as me can see it, then my daughter definitely sees it. She worries about you, too. Actually, I think she likes you better half of the time anyways.”

A blossom, bright and warm, unfurls in Pike’s chest, and she pulls Scanlan closer to her and kisses him softly on the cheek. He closes his eyes and hums. 

“Thank you,” she says. “We gotta get to the point where we don’t have someone less than half our age is worrying about us, though.”

“Speak for yourself, maybe. I’m kinda getting used it.” Scanlan turns his face to hers and kisses her. “Might do us some good, having some genuine worriers.”

“You? Used to someone worrying about you?” Pike arches her neck, and Scanlan follows obligingly. “Gods forbid.”

“Same for you, Pikey,” he says, his breath warm on her throat. “That what we’ll call each other? _This is Scanlan, he’s my Designated Worrier._ ”

“Hey, it’s a move up from Friends Plus.” Pike moves her hands along his sides, and feels him shiver against her touch. He starts to say something else, but she’s distracted by that shiver and chases it viciously until he is panting and hard against her, and his hands go to the laces of her breeches, 

and the door bangs open, Scanlan jumps about three feet into the air out of shock, and Grog begins to shout about trickery and sneakery and _finally you two_ and he begins to cry at the thought of gnomish babies, and Scanlan has to awkwardly pat Grog’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. 

Pike finds herself howling with laughter, and she swears that as she collapses to the floor in a fit of giggles, she can feel the spin of the earth under her backside.

  
  


—

_They don’t talk for two weeks after their argument, but Pike notices Scanlan going out of his way to make her comfortable in the interim. The food at the mansion’s table always has some of her favorites, the portrait commissioned (ish) from Garmelie has resumed its place of pride above the mantelpiece, and Kaylie and Scanlan spend more of their time practicing some of the more traditional Gnomish tunes, all reels and danceable things._

_Then, out of the blue, they begin to speak again. It’s not much, but it’s something. Scanlan begins with small things, like “Did Westruun have this variation—” and he’d play a tune one way, “—or this one?” and he’d play it a slightly different way. More often than not, she wouldn’t really know, and she thinks he knows this as well—but it’s a definite start._

_In return, Pike starts asking him about his past. About his mother—beautiful, hilarious, the voice of an angel and dead too soon—and about his father—gone, an inventor and not much of one, but gone gone gone—and about goblins and leaving home to sing on the streets. He turns the questions around on her sometimes, and it’s…hard to answer. She gets it, why he’s doing this, she does, but still. She tells him about the Trickfoots, about the mother and father who never came back and Wilhand, plucking her out of a den of iniquity, how she sent money to the cousins but never gave a forwarding address. It’s a tit-for-tat exchange of the past, inorganic and awkward but measured and steady nonetheless._

_She knows that he talks about some things with Kaylie, and whenever she finds the two of them with their heads identically tilted, she moves away to give them space. Scanlan doesn’t talk about those discussions with her. Kaylie also starts to spend more time with Pike as well, asks her stories about their adventures from a non-Scanlan perspective, and Pike is glad for it: she’s an interesting girl, just as charismatic as her father but without the aptitude—or care—to file away her rougher, meaner edges. It’s refreshing to watch her haggle with traveling merchants, deploying charm and cruelty in equal measure and leaving them reeling from the whiplash to such an extent that they’re forced to drop the price._

_Like her father, Kaylie has a tendency to curl inward, to protect any soft spots—but where Scanlan had done it with humor and deflection, Kaylie does it by going on the offensive. Unlike her father, Kaylie can look at a person and see where they’re actually coming from instead of applying their behavior to a prescriptive narrative._

_All in all, Pike likes Kaylie quite a lot. Kaylie seems a little more ambivalent about her—still treats her respectfully, but maybe that’s out of deference to Scanlan’s obvious feelings. That ambivalence is to be expected, Pike thinks. She’s not in any rush to force a relationship where there isn’t one yet._

_One morning, however, Pike finds Kaylie waiting by the door of the mansion as she slips outside to pray at dawn._

_“Mind if I listen in?” Kaylie says, her arms crossed. There’s an affected air of_ say what you want, I won’t care either way _, but it’s so transparent that Pike has to fight back a smile._

_“I don’t mind at all,” Pike replies. So Kaylie follows her outside and Pike explains how she sets up for prayer, the arrangement of a makeshift altar and the lighting of incense, and the basics of the meditative trance that accompanies her prayer, which then lets her prepare spells for the day. “A bit different from other casters,” she says, as she settles into her customary kneel before the prayer begins. “I guess I’ve got the most in common with druidic casters, honestly, because we’ve gotta really look for our spells within ourselves but_ also _in something else.”_

_Kaylie nods. “Do you need to be alone for this part?” She’s been fairly quiet throughout the explanation, but Pike can see the processing of information behind the younger girl’s eyes._ She doesn’t miss much, _Pike thinks._ Good _._

_“Oh, no, not at all. But honestly I probably won’t hear you much, because I’ll be pretty deep in.” The bright light of dawn is creeping through the trees by now, with long-fingered shadows covering the ground. “It won’t be super exciting for you, either.”_

_“That’s fine,” Kaylie says. She sits on the ground nearby, and looks to the east. “It’s also just nice to watch the sun rise.”_

_Pike_ hmms _in agreement, and then begins to count her breaths, and is soon lost in the prayer._

_She knows, technically, that her prayers last an hour, but it never really feels like it—at first she’s kneeling on the damp ground, and then she’s quickly deep within herself, and she can see the golden light of her magical core paired with Sarenrae’s touch._

What will I need today? _she asks, both of herself and her god. As always, there is an immediate answer, and Pike makes her selections, holding the magic close to her heart, her throat, her hands, her mouth, and it seeps into her easily._

_Once she’s finished, she opens her eyes and dawn has well and truly arrived. Kaylie has moved from her initial seat, and is currently pacing around the copse, but she turns around as soon as she hears Pike begin to move again._

_“You weren’t joking about it being so damn boring,” she says, but there’s a smile as she says it. “Makes me glad to be a bard, that does.”_

_Pike laughs, and she knows that there’s a gasp of golden light that leaves her mouth as she does, because she can see Kaylie’s eyes widen. “It’s not for everyone, but I guess it’s always been exciting for me. It’s a little different for everyone, though.” That was true. She’d known other clerics who studied their spellbooks and prayers to find their spells, and other clerics who made ritual sacrifices each morning to appease their gods, and others who meditated through movement. But for her, the stillness of the dawn has always brought her calm. “I know a guy who has to offer his own blood every morning to get his spells.” Poor Kash._

_Kaylie’s face twists. “That’s hell.”_

_“A little bit,” Pike says, and she shrugs. “There are different rituals of devotion, different ways to do your duty to your god.”_

_At the word ‘duty,’ Kaylie—does she flinch? Oh, it’s hard to read this girl when she genuinely doesn’t want to be read. Too much of her father in her for it to be easy. But there’s a twinge there, a slight narrowing of the eyes. If it were Scanlan, she’d chase that twinge, pry it open into a discussion, and he’d expect it—but this isn’t Scanlan. Either way, she files it away as something to address later, and Pike packs up her altar and the two go back into the mansion to a glorious chicken breakfast._

_“Gettin’ pretty fuckin’ tired of chicken breakfasts, old man,” Kaylie tells Scanlan as he totters down the stairs in a short kimono. “Eatin’ meat at every meal isn’t good for you anyways.”_

_“Take it up with the cooks, then,” he says tiredly, and tucks into his food. “They should listen to you.”_

_Kaylie gets a gleam in her eye, and she quickly finishes her breakfast and rushes to the kitchen. Scanlan yawns into his coffee, but doesn’t really look at her._

_“Morning, Scanlan. Did you stay up late?” Pike asks. She didn’t think he had—but it’s also not like they’d been attached at the hip recently._

_Scanlan shakes his head. “Do you ever dream about your death?” he asks her instead._

_“_ Good morning to you too, Pike _, is what we’d normally say, but…” she puts her fork down and steeples her fingers over her chin. “Yes. Especially a few months afterwards.”_

_“Hmm. You never said so.”_

_“I was also on a boat for a lot of that time, Scanlan.”_

_“Oh. Right.”_

_“That’s how I dealt with it.”_

_“Yeah, I got that,” he says, picking at his chicken. He’s still not looking at her._

_Pike sighs, and puts her forehead in her laced fingers. It’s still so easy to lapse into judgement, into anger. “That wasn’t where I meant things to go. I meant that yes, it’s normal to have these dreams, as far as I can tell, and no, it’s never fun. I’m sorry that you’re having those dreams.”_

_“I’m sorry you had them too.” Then he pauses, and squints. “That means everyone in Vox Machina has had these, yes? Except for Keyleth.”_

_“Probably.” Pike shakes her head. “Well, maybe not Grog. He’s not scared of dying so much as he’s scared of us dying.”_

_“And yet we never heard anything about any of the tall folk having bad dreams,” he says, his tone pointed._

_“I don’t think there’s a single one of us who wants other people to think that they’re broken, Scanlan.”_

_He’s silent at this. One of his hands comes up to tap at his lips, thinking._

_“Do you think I’m broken, then?” she presses on. “Because I’ve had these dreams. A lot.”_

_He raises one eyebrow at her. “Not because of the_ dreams _, no, Miss Duty.”_

_“Hey, fuck you, buddy.”_

_“Gods, if only.”_

_That gets a snort out of her—even the most basic of flirtations are rare from him now, but they always make her laugh, and it’s sign enough to her that he gets what she’s saying. If anything, it’s Scanlan’s odd way of requesting that they drop the subject._

_“Hey, speaking of duty—and stop me if this is overly intrusive—but Kaylie and I were talking after she sat with me during my prayers, and she kind of… flinched? When I said that word? I don’t know. It was weird.”_

_Both of his eyebrows are raised, now. “She sat with you during your prayers?” Pike nods. “Did she tell you why?”_

_“No. Just asked if she could watch, but you know, in the way where it was like she was super-interested but didn’t actually want to show it.”_

_“Ah. The Classic Kaylie, then.”_

_“Yup.” His eyes are tracking somewhere past her, in the doorway, and Pike can feel more than hear the presence of the younger girl behind her._

_“You want to explain it?” Scanlan asks Kaylie. “Or me?”_

_Pike doesn’t turn around. Sometimes approaching either of these two is like trying to get a skittish cat to like you, and it’s better to just stay still with your palm outstretched._

_“I’m fine,” says Kaylie. “Not like it’s a big secret, anyways. Hey Pike - do you like serving a god or not?”_

_Oh, goodness. Pike unfolds and refolds her hands. “Oh gosh. That’s some breakfast conversation right there.”_

_“No pressure if you don’t wanna answer.” But Kaylie slings herself into the chair between Scanlan and Pike anyways, and she’s looking at Pike intently. Scanlan is also keeping a close eye on Pike, but he does a better job of hiding it—he, at least, has seen some variant of this conversation before._

_“No, no. It’s fine.” Pike pushes her plate back, and prepares herself. “I love Sarenrae. It’s hard to explain that kind of love or devotion, though, so I guess the best I can describe it is like… it’s home? It’s comfort? It’s knowing there’s something solid beyond all these indefinite things.” Kaylie nods. “But sometimes the serving part can… I guess I don’t even like to call it serving, when it’s really more like… I’m doing this because I love it, even when it’s hard.”_

_Kaylie twists her head, thinking, but Scanlan speaks up. “Serving because you love them is still serving, though,” he says. “The intent doesn’t cancel the act. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean you have to bend over backwards to please them.”_

_“No, but the intent makes the act happen. If I didn’t have this love, then I would never do this. They go hand-in-hand,” she says. “It’s like... I view these serving things as my duty, because I do this for the ones I love.”_

_“What if you don’t want that? What if you just want to love someone without this constraint of duty?”_

_“What if_ you _don’t want that, or if_ Pike _doesn’t want that?” Kaylie interjects. “Don’t project your shit in an argument, old man.”_

_Pike bites her lip to hold back a laugh, and Scanlan rolls his eyes—very maturely—at his own daughter. “Don’t interrupt when the grown-ups are talking, young lady,” he says, and he isn’t able to duck quickly enough to dodge the teacup Kaylie flings at his head. It bounces off his temple and shatters onto the floor, and Pike fully laughs at Scanlan’s cursing._

_“Fuck off,” Kaylie says. “Just for that, we’re eating vegan for three months.” But she stays in the chair, her legs hooked over the side. “What_ do _you do in that case, O Holy Woman?” she asks._

_Pike closes her eyes to think. It’s… not something that she tries to separate that often, this idea of love and duty. “For me,” she begins, “practicing love is how I do my duty. I—there’s different kinds of love, right? I love Sarenrae and she’s my god. I love Grog and he’s my best friend. I love Wilhand and he’s my Poppop.” She opens her eyes again, and looks at Scanlan. He’s nodding, if slowly. “But no matter what, I want everyone I love to be happy, and I make them happiest by being able to do things for them, whether it’s making them laugh or helping them or healing them or bringing them back from the dead. And I figure that if I’m_ able _to make someone happy, then I_ should _, right?”_

_“Where do you draw the line, though?” Kaylie asks. Scanlan is quiet, his finger tapping his lips again. Thinking. “Where’s the line for_ able _?”_

_Pike drags in a breath through her nose. “I don’t think there’s a line for the people I love, but… I—you know, Kaylie,” she says, interrupting herself. “When your goddess repeatedly pulls you from your body in order to bring your friends back to life or to help in just… the absolute_ worst _battles, I think that the line_ has _to disappear.”_

_Kaylie slowly leans back in her chair. “Point.” She grabs Scanlan’s teacup, and sneers at the coffee. “Gross, old man. This stuff is hell on the vocal cords, you know.”_

_“You said you make the people you love happiest by being able to do things for them,” Scanlan says suddenly. “That’s not true.”_

_“Oh?” Pike asks. “Do tell.”_

_“You make me happy just by being here,” he says. Pike feels her breath catch in her throat._

_“Yeah, but she’s doing something for you,” Kaylie says. “She’s walking with us so you don’t fuckin’ off yourself when my back’s turned.”_

_Both Scanlan and Pike wince at Kaylie’s blunt words, but Scanlan rallies himself. “Not even that,” he says. “Just sitting here and talking with me about dumb philosophy shit. Hell, just sitting around silently with you when you’re praying. That makes me happy, unless you count just…_ conversation _as doing something for someone. I guess you could.”_

_He does not look at her while he says this, which is probably a good thing since it means he can’t see Pike’s blush. Kaylie whistles lowly, and kicks herself out of her chair._

_“I’m gonna go get ready,” she says. “Pike, thanks for answerin’ my questions. Don’t fuck on the table. Or do. I don’t rightly care.”_

_“Cool, thanks,” Scanlan calls after her. “We’ll make sure the servants clean the tablecloth.” Kaylie flips him off as she leaves the room, but Pike almost wishes she’d stayed. At least then it wouldn’t be silent, like it is now._

_“…._ do _you count conversation as doing something for someone?” Scanlan asks her, after the silence has dragged on a bit too long. He still doesn’t look directly at her._

_“Depends on the conversation, doesn’t it?” she says, and then frowns as he slumps slightly. “Not the ones that we’ve been having recently, though. I guess…. because I’m not the only one doing the work in the conversations.”_

_“Oh, good.” He takes the coffee back from where Kaylie had placed it, and takes a sip. “You know, you don’t have to keep going with us. What Kaylie said about… me killing myself—I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen now.” As with many things Scanlan, this is delivered with a practiced nonchalance that both amuses and frustrates Pike. However, it’s also true—she’s seen him leave that reclusive, oppressive mood that had dogged their steps during the first couple of weeks._

_“I know,” she says. “And I’m glad for that. But I think I’ll stick around a little bit longer.”_

_“What about Grog? The rest of your friends?”_

_“The rest of_ our _friends are pretty good at pairing off with each other, and I talk to Grog every night. Also—“ and here she cannot stop herself from blushing an even deeper red, because she is not and likely never will be as forthright as Scanlan is about his feelings, “—I’m happy when I get to spend time with you, too.”_

_“Pikey, that almost sounds selfish,” Scanlan says, and, for the first time in a long while, winks at her. “I like it. Keep it up.”_

_“Watch it, buster.”_

_Scanlan waggles his eyebrows, and successfully dodges the second thrown teacup of the morning._

_—_

Ank’Harel is frighteningly warm, even on a late autumn evening, but Pike cannot help to be amazed: Grog and Scanlan had done their best to describe the city to her, but their words paled in comparison to the reality of the place. It is a low, sprawling city built around a series of oases and rivers, but the streets seem cleaner than Emon’s had ever been and the jutting central spire of the Cerulean Palace is the jewel of the city’s center, gleaming blue in the golden hour.

Even now, walking through the Suncut Bazaar to the tune of haggling merchants and street performers, she feels like a wide-eyed child, pulling Scanlan off to investigate this stall or that, picking out pieces that might be good for Vax, or this one for Keyleth, or this one…

Scanlan offers critiques of the pieces—not enough black for Vax, wrong shade of blue for Vex, actually that one’s pretty good for Kiki, not haunted enough for Percy—and Pike very pointedly does not make a fuss over it. Through the past few months, he’d begun floating the names of their other friends into conversation more regularly, using them as hypotheticals or talking about their choices. He hasn’t said that he misses them, but Pike knows what he’s doing, and he knows that she knows. Every now and then, he’ll pat her hand after he discusses one of the other members of Vox Machina, like he’s trying to both comfort himself and reassure her. 

It’d begun after she’d gotten a sending from Keyleth, saying that Vox Machina was going to meet in Whitestone after Winter’s Crest and if she and Grog would come and _maybe Scanlan wanted to come along too if he felt like he could? No pressure though. Love you all._ Pike had brought it up with her two boys, and while Grog had immediately said yes, Scanlan had asked for a few days to think, and they’d taken on a quick contract from the Slayer’s Take to fill the time.

After those few days, she had received a counter-offer over the breakfast table: “Can we visit Kaylie in Ank’Harel before? I… don’t know if I can make my mind up, yet.”

And that had been that, so they made their way to Marquet over the Ozmit Sea, eventually working their way to Ank’Harel proper, where they met with a deeply-tanned Kaylie and a perma-burnt Dr. Dranzel. Kaylie gave Scanlan a ginger hug as he stepped off of the riverboat ferry, but she’d shaken Grog’s hand (well, one of Grog’s fingers, but Grog claimed that she’d nearly ripped the thing off anyways) and given Pike a nod.

“He’s lookin’ good,” Kaylie had said, slugging Scanlan on the shoulder. “Takin’ care of this one?” 

“Oh, you know—two-way streets,” Pike says, and a grin had curled across Kaylie’s face.

Now, Kaylie leads the group through the Suncut, pointing out where the best deals or the worst hagglers were to be found, which alleyways to avoid, and so on. Dr. Dranzel and Grog stick out like sore thumbs in the crowd, but at present this seems to only mean that they cut easily through the evening market on their way to the troupe’s current venue. When they get there, it’s just as brightly colored as many of the other establishments throughout the city, but this inn has a sizeable four stories to it, dwarfing most establishments that Pike’d seen in Emon.

“We’re makin’ out pretty good here,” Dr. Dranzel tells Scanlan, “but I’ve personally got a hankerin’ to return to Tal’Dorei. Or we could go to Wildemount again—maybe we’d get chased outta a few less towns without you involved.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Doctor,” Scanlan says, but Pike can see the wariness under his smile. “I’m what made those gigs interesting.”

To his credit, Dr. Dranzel simply chuffs out a laugh, and crows, “Right you are!” before he walks ahead to catch up with Kaylie. Scanlan is still scanning the crowd, but there’s a distance in his gaze.

“Whatcha thinkin’?” Grog asks, beating Pike to it. “Got your thinkin’ face on.”

“To think, I used to be able to hide it from you,” Scanlan says wryly. “What a shame.”

“Fat chance now, innit,” Grog says. “‘I’ve got you pegged.”

Pike raises an eyebrow at Scanlan, and he gives her a slight smile when he meets her gaze. Pike knows by now that Scanlan has to work to choose not to lie, and that the mask still has a habit of slipping back on—one good(ish) year doesn’t fix a decades-old habit. She also knows he’d get after her for the same thing, so she returns the smile.

“What _are_ you thinking, though, Scanlan?” she says, and reaches out for him and takes his hand. His smile grows.

“Can it wait a little bit more?” he responds. “Let’s watch this show, first.” He squeezes her hand gently, a reassurance. “I’m okay, I promise.”

Pike gives him a long look, but he’s not holding himself with any kind of tension or nervousness. “Alright, then,” she says slowly.

The show, as it turns out, is extremely good. Kaylie’s time with Scanlan has added new flair and timing to her technique, which augments her more classical education from the College of The White Duke, and the troupe intersperses Tal’Dorei standards to more common Marquesian songs that have the rest of the bar singing along. At one point, Dr. Dranzel calls Scanlan to the stage, and Kaylie and Scanlan have a repetition of that first flute duel, so long ago, which the audience eats up.

Grog is drinking happily, two tables claimed for himself, and Pike has hopped herself up to his gigantic shoulder somewhere after the first set. The bar seems to have a fairly set clientele—people of all genders and ages, mostly humans, some looking to be locals while others are more obviously traveling merchants who have stopped here for the night. There’s even a few rough-looking mercenaries clustered around a table near the stage, talking and gesturing to each other like they’re arguing something out.

Scanlan plays a few more songs with the troupe, and excuses himself from the rest of the performance with a bow, which the audience meets with enthusiastic applause. As he’s walking back to Pike and Grog, however, he pauses as he passes by the mercenaries, like he’s been caught by a hook.

“I’m so sorry,” Pike can just hear him say as he turns to the guards, “would you mind repeating that? I’m a bit of a connoisseur of ancient architecture, myself.” Then he pastes on his most charming smile—which is very charming indeed—and helps himself to a seat at their table.

Pike sits up warily, and her sudden movement startles Grog, who similarly sits up. Scanlan catches her eye, and subtly gestures her over to the table, and so Pike slides off of Grog and the two make their way over.

“My friends!” Scanlan calls out. “These are my archaeology buddies, we do group excavations.”

“Yup,” Grog says. “Artsyoscopy. Lots of it.”

“He does most of the digging,” Scanlan says. “Anyways, you were saying something about a ziggurat, yes? I’m fascinated with ziggurats.”

“We’ve seen a lot of them,” Pike says, trying to match the flow. “In Kraghammer, in Whitestone—“

“—in Vasselheim, in the Frostweald, just about… most… hmm,” Grog trails off, his eyebrows furrowing. Scanlan and Pike look at each other worriedly, but one of the guards—noticeably more drunk than her compatriots, although they’re all a fair degree south of sober—scoffs loudly.

“Those’re just places,” she says. “Didn’ have to fight a cult, I bet, buncha stuffed shirts.”

“Oh, definitely not,” Scanlan says smoothly. “Haven’t seen a day of combat in my life! I bet that’d be frightening, though—tell me about it?”

Behind Pike, Grog is rumbling with thought, but the woman is easily egged on. “Hadta help transport some goods to the Smouldercrown Mountains, to some kinda pyramid buried _inside_ a mountain, but we got there an’ the merchants just fuckin’ turned on us. Buncha people in dark robes in the night, like some shit outta a nightmare. Missin eyes, too.” She sniffs, and then shakes her head. “I mean, we made it out, but not all of us.”

“Fuckin’ bullshit,” one of her companions says. 

“That’s what I’m sayin’!” she says. “I’m done doin’ this shit. I need a better job.”

“Last time you tried a desk job, you attacked like five customers,” her other companion says. Pike raises her eyebrows. Grog is still processing something behind her.

“Shut up, Vala,” the woman says, and the table descends into petty argument, and Pike and Scanlan slip away, pulling Grog with them.

“Well,” Pike says. “This sounds…. frighteningly familiar.”

“Yeah, it does,” Scanlan says. His eyes are narrowed, thinking. 

“We’ve seen a lot of ziggawhats, haven’t we?” Grog says, breaking out of his reverie. “Like… _a lot_ a lot.”

“Ziggurats,” Scanlan corrects. “And… we have. Didn’t they used to be temples to Ioun or something?”

Pike takes a deep breath, counts it out. “There are too many similarities,” she says. “I think we need to…” Oh god, this is going to bite her in the ass. “I think we need to get the band back together.”

Grog guffaws, but Scanlan is looking at her with a mixture of disgust for the bad joke and some deeper, dulled terror. Then he sighs deeply, and scratches the back of his neck. On stage, the band is finishing up their second set, and they’ve set a dancing mood in the room, except for this little pocket.

“You know,” Scanlan says, looking at the stage, “I was honestly getting ready to tell you all that I didn’t really want to go back to Whitestone—“ and a small part of Pike’s heart breaks, “—because Kaylie’s told me that she wants to go back to the College in Westruun and oh my god I had a whole-ass speech planned out about this, and if you would want to live there again, I could go early and get everything set up, oh god I’m fucking this up—“

Pike takes Scanlan’s face in her hands and stops his babbling with a kiss. “Slow down. It’s okay.”

“I mean, it’s not, not really,” he says, but he takes a breath, warm on her cheek. “I had plans for this evening, you know? But now I think we have to go take care of a cult.”

On stage, Pike can see Kaylie watching them closely, and Scanlan is watching Pike. She can feel his heartbeat in his jaw, clasped gently between her hands.

“I think,” Pike says, and to her surprise she can feel her own heartbeat thundering through her chest, “that I would love to live with you. I would love that very much, Scanlan Shorthalt.” She kisses him again, and his grin is sliding around his mouth like it’s hard to pin down. “But we definitely _do_ have to take care of this ziggurat thing, you know.”

Over both of them, Grog shoots a thumbs-up to the stage, and Kaylie lets out a loud whoop.

“Our duty to the world?” Scanlan asks Pike, taking her hands and kissing the backs, the palms, the thumbs.

“Something like that,” Pike says, and the troupe begins to play a gnomish reel, one with the odd variant that Pike had only ever heard in Westruun. Grog knows the steps, and begins stomping around on the floor, the tables nearby shaking and rattling with the weight of his feet. Pike hears Kaylie laugh at the display, and she pulls on Scanlan’s hands until she’s dragged him out next to Grog, to dance and to spin until the physical world feels just as breathless and light as her soul does, just at this moment.

“Something like that,” she repeats, and his lips find hers at each turn, again and again. “But it’ll wait until tomorrow.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> technically, i think the pikelan prompts are supposed to be posted on the actual day of, but my work resumes this monday and once i start teaching, that's where my brain goes entirely.
> 
> this was intended to be a short 2k, maaaaaaybe 3k piece. joke's on me, i guess. this is the longest thing i've written since my thesis. title comes from the traditional shaker hymn "simple gifts," which to me feels very close to what pike's personal philosophy might be--or i pull out the kierkegaard, but no one wants that.
> 
> comments/critiques appreciated! thank you for taking the time to read this.


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